


Common People

by TheCrazyGeek



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 23:06:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2043663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrazyGeek/pseuds/TheCrazyGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the same Wingfic universe as 'On a F*cking Wing and a F*cking Prayer' series, this has Emma Messinger, Lady of the Flocks, attempt to seduce the common-born Malcolm Tucker. This is a standalone piece of smut basically :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Common People

**Author's Note:**

> Written by the great collaboration of the Tumblr writers The-Crazy-Geek and themasterplanner.

*****

Emma Messinger, shadow cabinet advisor, lady of the Flock and future heir to the Messinger Estate, never thought she’d feel a twinge of jealousy toward a mere personal assistant, and one who might as well be Wingless, at that.

Well, there was a first time for everything, she supposed.

Sam Cassidy’s Joined Mate, Malcolm Tucker, wasn’t just powerful, he was a power; the grey-winged Scot was the acknowledged Alpha of a territory that encompassed Whitehall and Westminster, the seat of Her Majesty’s Government. He had an eerie beauty to him, that of a cruel bird of prey — high sharp cheekbones, a smirking smile on his thin lips, scorn in his grey eyes. His steel-grey Italian suit stretched across his wide shoulders, and his presence seethed with power and dominance. He looked like one of the Winged of old — of the race that had once conquered the earth and skies.

 

She took a seat at the open bar, taking a drink and watching him stride in like he owned the place. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, couldn’t speak or swallow or hear anything except her own racing heartbeat. The man possessed a very perilous charisma; he practically radiated, as all Alphas seemed to, a sense of predatory power and menace, of the untamed just barely suppressed below the surface.

She shuddered, gazing up at his silver hair, his strong shoulders, his lean, lined face. The thought of a Mating Flight with him, of seeing his pointed dove grey wings spread wide above her…

The blood rushed to her cheeks, her insides twisting with longing as her breath hitched in her throat. She knew she’d be doing this even if she hadn’t been told to keep an eye on the brash upstart.

***

Her grandmother, the matriarch of a Flock dating back to the Tudors, had called Emma into her study a few months back, and outlined just why a working-class man was worthy of the attentions of the blue-bloods of the Flock.

“Emma, we need you to do a bit of investigative work. Find out everything you can about Malcolm Tucker.” Grandmother Evelyn gave her orders in the same cut-glass tones she’d used to tell the servants to get her a cup of tea. “He’s Joined with the Cassidy penguin,” she said, using the archaic term for a Wingless born into the Flocks. “You remember Samantha from Cheltenham Ladies’ College, don’t you?”

Emma merely sat quietly and listened as her Grandmother continued, staring off at the giant portrait of Queen Elizabeth I with her great albatross wings spread. “Malcolm is the Alpha of Westminster, how, we have no idea. He certainly fancies himself powerful on the political stage, but how the old cuckoo holds the skies against every man of the Flocks — well, that’s your job. Find out. Perhaps then we’ll finally be able to clip his wings.”

***

Oh, how it must have rankled the arrogant Scot to find out that the Winged nobility considered an earth-bound, defective daughter to be the proper match for a cuckoo from the slums of Glasgow. Emma could only imagine how much the ambitious Labour communications director must resent the Joining Contract that bound him to Cassidy interests. Surely he would want an alliance with a proper Winged lady with proper wings.

Someone like her, with her soft bluebird’s wings tipped with deep cobalt.

His grey eyes scanned the room in a flicker of movement, judging friend and foe alike, and swept over her without pausing before making his way past the bar to someone he’d seen. Well, the night was young, and she’d hardly have expected him to come right up to her from the get go — Alphas took what they wanted, and as far as he knew, she had nothing he wanted. That would change later, she vowed, and sipped casually at her drink, content for now to just observe the great predator. A task which was made a lot easier when he stopped barely three people away from her and started talking to his Senior Press Officer.

Jamie MacDonald. Even in her Party, people were scared of that man. All of Malcolm’s fury and hatred but with none of his restraint or cunning, almost as low-born as Malcolm himself and utterly unafraid of anything. She’d seen him once or twice up in the skies, his red-flecked black wings making him look like one of Satan’s own flock, and knew he was strong. Far stronger than her, or perhaps even Malcolm. Why would a man like that work for Malcolm, instead of knocking him off his perch?

Her musings were interrupted when Jamie barked a laugh. “Aye, she does at that!” and she looked to see both men staring at her with amused expressions. “Hoity-toity Lady Diana slummin’ it with us common folk. Ye’re right Malc, she’s probably bored with pencil-dicked fucking snobs,” Jamie said, and he laughed even harder when Malcolm broke out into a few bars of “Common People” by Pulp — specifically the part that went “I wanna sleep with common people, like you" — in a surprisingly good imitation of Jarvis Cocker.

Well, he certainly had the figure to pull it off.

She’d wanted to leave, to get away from the vile, ill-mannered commoners of the Opposition’s so-called Caledonian Mafia — but she hadn’t attained her position in life by giving up at the first hint of hardship, or by being easily intimidated.

She stood up and made her way towards them, deliberately smoothing the fabric of her expensive, and rather tight, halter dress against her curves.

"So what if I am bored of those pencil-dicked fucking snobs?”

"Oh, she’s got a fucking attitude tae go with it?" Jamie grinned and deliberately ran his eyes down her body. "Nice dress, did your slaves stitch ye intae it?"

Malcolm stayed silent and smiling almost proudly as his tame hawk verbally tore into her. Within the next minute and a half, Jamie had proceeded to insult her, her family, her entire class, and suggested a few physical contortions she was sure were anatomically impossible. The foul-mouthed little plebe was inventive, and the archetypal bad boy at that, but she wasn’t interested in him. Thank God.

Emma just smiled. “When was the last time either of you went on a hunt for some food?” The question was nicely generalised so the normal humans around them wouldn’t guess that they were three winged predators, talking about hunting for live prey.

"Fuckin’ ages, love," Jamie sneered. "You go fuckin’ about hunting in this city at the moment, and yer fine feathered arse will be all over YouTube like a fucking cat video."

Perfect. She had them. “I could show you a place where there won’t be media eyes,” she said, leaning in as if to impart a great secret. “It’s about thirty minutes outside the city, and we could go anytime you like.”

"No press hacks?" Malcolm tilted his head and actually seriously pondered the wee lass’ idea. After all, it had been ages since he’d hunted and this party was more boring than fucking Glenn Cullen doing stand-up comedy. “Where is this fucking magical place?”

Emma picked up her handbag and stood up. “Our estates. Nothing flies over there unless we give them permission, and we’ve got enough defense systems to enforce that. But — ” She leaned forward again, offering a fantastic view of her flawless skin and Page Three-worthy cleavage. “— you’ll be with me, so I can let you in. We’ve a large clump of trees that have quite a sizeable pheasant population…”

***

Of all the things Malcolm had thought the night would bring, hunting in the Messinger forests wasn’t even on the fucking list.

Normally hunting was done very secretly; the city was always watching, and those London pigeons could actually fucking fight well for something less than a foot high, and they always tasted of diesel fumes and fucking petrol. In a Winged estate, however, there were no limits. Fly as fast, as low and as loudly as you wanted — Jamie certainly took advantage of the last option and screeched like an eagle as he stripped his shirt off and took to the air — and the fare was free range pheasant instead of slimy, stringy old pigeon.

For the first time in his life, Malcolm wondered what it would be like to have an estate like this of his own. The ability to just open the window and fly out any time you fucking wished, without having tae worry about a city full of people with camera phones —

As Malcolm shook his head and leapt for a takeoff, Jamie had already spotted a particularly fat pheasant nesting in one of the trees, and leaned into a hunting stoop.

"What’s the matter, ye grey cunt?" he shouted towards Malcolm, tucking his wings in to swoop between the trees. "The fucking arthritis hit the auld wing bones!?"

Fucking Motherwell cunt. “Keep that up, MacDonald, and the fucking birdies won’t be the only ones gettin’ torn apart!” Malcolm snarled, and zipped past Jamie close enough to flick him across the face with his sharp pinion feathers. “I’ll make ye intae fucking brown sauce an’ smear ye on my catch!”

Emma, drifting above the pair on a small thermal, rolled her eyes at the behavior of the two men. No manners or sense of refinement at all. Commoners.

Malcolm had already caught two pheasants, diving behind them, snatching them up, and breaking their necks before they knew what hit them. His pointed silver wings carried him swiftly upon the currents, and within a second he’d taken the pheasant Jamie had caught right out of his hands. Jamie’s howls of anger and Malcolm’s wild, mocking laughter filled the air.

Emma moaned and tightened her thighs against the sudden wave of arousal that coursed through her at the sight. Common or not, Malcolm was Alpha, all unrefined power and presence on silver wings, and instincts as old as their race were prompting her to behavior unbecoming of an aristocrat. She wanted him, wanted Malcolm to fly up to her, bite her neck and drag her down to earth, where he’d take her roughly amid the leaves and grass and —

Her fantasies were interrupted by Jamie’s voice. “Oi!” he called as Malcolm folded his wings back for another dive. “Fucking save some for the rest of us, ye greedy fuck!”

There was no question of the black-winged press officer’s strength and speed — but there was a large difference between an Alpha and everyone else, and MacDonald was simply not an Alpha. Emma’s thoughts shifted to how she might chase him off — and get herself alone with Malcolm. This was no longer just about information gathering — she could fly back to the manor house right now, wake Grandmother up, and give her a full report on how Mr Tucker held his Alpha status — but about possession.

Yes, she could certainly see why the Cassidy Flock had agreed to Join one of their daughters to this man, commoner though he was.

If Emma’s body had been on high alert before, it was even more so now, as her muscles began to tingle and twitch. She was starting to throb in all the right places. Her breath came shorter, and she could feel a growing wetness between her legs. She tightened her legs again as a fully-formed plan leapt to the forefront of her mind.

Mine. You’re mine, Malcolm. And you don’t even realise it yet.

***

Malcolm gestured almost absent-mindedly at his staff member. “Okay, ye take the next one. I’m fuckin’ full, anyhow.” Jamie snorted out an insult concerning Malcolm’s skinny frame, but Malcolm wasn’t really listening. He was distracted by something else, something familiar and yet different, a scent on the winds.

The scent was unmistakable: aroused and fertile female Winged. Ye fucking god, was that posh bint lustin’ over them up there? Leaving Jamie to tear apart his kill — and belch loudly during eating, that man was damn near feral sometimes, even by Winged standards — Malcolm flapped his grey wings and headed up to where Emma hovered.

***

She saw him coming in a flash of grey and silver, soaring up from the forest floor toward her. Just like a Mating Flight, her mind supplied, and the pressure between her legs, the need to mate, grew even hotter, more urgent. He really was a handsome man; the passage of years on his face had only made his aquiline features more refined. He was a Wingless-born commoner, true, but he was still Alpha, all lean and deadly predator, and since the death of her Chosen two years ago, she’d not encountered another one.

She knew what he could sense, what he could smell. Her Heat cycle had come about when she was still with that louche Ollie Reeder, and for a while it had been fun to keep him staggering to work exhausted from nights of near constant sex. But he wasn’t Winged and, as she was no fool, she’d used her connections to obtain a supply of medications that would keep her — ahh, baser — instincts under control, as well as turning her fertility and pheromone production down.

Down, but not off. Malcolm would still be able to smell it — something that made her plans for this night even easier. A Winged female’s attraction pheromones at full strength would entice Winged males for miles around. Hers were subdued behind the cocktail of narcotic drugs prescribed to curtail her instincts and hormonal response, but at this close range they’d still work. He’d be reacting to them, his own instincts getting his body ready for mating. He’d want her.

It was just as well that she’d broken things off with Ollie. Malcolm, despite being an unscrupulous opportunist, might have had some reservations at taking her while she was still dating a member of his Party, even a fairly useless one. Anyway, a Winged lady of her station would never be permitted to Join herself to some Wingless yob and bear his Wingless young. After all, an eagle does not mate with the chickens on the ground.

Her musings were interrupted by a hard gust of wind as Malcolm came up to her level and used his great wings to hover next to her. Stunning amount of control too — his silver feathers not even brushing her, which for a man with a wingspan like that, was quite impressive.

Now this was an eagle!

***

"Hello Lady Di," Malcolm drawled. "Havin’ fun hovering up here an’ lording it over the common folk?"

As he got closer to her, Malcolm’s suspicions were verified. This blue-blooded bitch was so fucking horny, it’s a wonder she didn’t soak through her kecks and shower Jamie down on the forest floor with a fucking torrent. Malcolm’s political mind spun up, simultaneously trying to think of a way to turn this to his advantage and battling his libido, which was already starting to tent the front of his trousers with an enormous erection.

Not to say that the little slapper wasn’t attractive; she was, and uncommonly so, as much as he fucking hated to admit it. Her long blonde hair fluttered behind her in the wind, her porcelain skin luminous as a pearl under the moonlight. She showed off the curves of her fit, toned body with her clothing: the skirt of her blue dress just long enough to cover her pert arse and the top composed of elegant strips of pale blue cloth that looped around her neck and criss-crossed her torso, preserving her modesty while leaving her wings free.

***

Beating her bluebird wings, Emma flew a little closer to get a better look at her prey. He was a stunning physical specimen: tall, long-limbed and lean, almost thin, with slender pointed wings and the aerodynamic build of a proper Winged, but appearances were deceptive: he was wiry from the physical demands of flight and dominance battles in midair, his every muscle precisely delineated and moving under his pale skin like the well-oiled pistons of a sleek and elegant killing machine.

She tried to touch him, but he back-winged away, out of her reach.

***

"You’re in Heat, aren’t ye?" Malcolm said, though he knew the answer already. She fucking reeked of it, the honey scent threatening to overwhelm his senses. Her pupils were belladonna-wide and glazed with lust, her breathing was getting heavier by the minute, and her dress stretched so tightly over her swollen breasts that he could see her nipples underneath — stiff and thick, ready to be licked and sucked. “Shouldn’t ye be fucking about with yer Bonded Mate?”

Emma merely shrugged. “My Chosen died of a heart attack before we could have a Mating Flight. We never got to have a Bonding ceremony. So I’m available until my flock makes another arrangement.”

Duplicitous little Tory tart. She’d planned this all along. Her “invitation” had been as fucking transparent as her knickers were right now and he’d not seen it. This was nae hospitality, it was just fucking sex and politics. It always was.

Emma smirked, and in a flutter of blue she was off like a two-quid prossie’s kecks, flying deeper into the grounds.

She knew he would follow. Of course he would. He needed to breed as much as she did, and his wingless Chosen couldn’t give him this: the glory of the Mating Flight, the thrill of the cool night air across skin heated by the powerful arousal response of a Heat cycle, wings and heart beating fast as you chased your Mate through the skies. That penguin bitch he was bound to probably couldn’t even go into heat. No, only she, Emma Messinger, could do this for him.

Malcolm somersaulted and twisted through the air, showing off his speed and agility in a series of spectacular aerial acrobatics. Soaring up into the moonlight to display the beauty of his shining silver feathers, he folded his wings back and leaned into a sharp dive.

Emma flew fast — females always did during a Mating Flight, so that only the strongest and fastest males could catch them — but he’d caught up to her within seconds.

“There isn’t a bird alive in Westminster than can fly faster than me, I’m fucking Concorde!” he said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement as he hovered in front of her. “So stop buzzin’ around like a fucking drunk wasp.” She watched as he turned on a feather and shot down toward the ground, initially baffled as to what he was doing, and then smiled and descended herself — far more gracefully, as befit a lady — to land a hundred metres or so away from Malcolm and Jamie.

The Winged were predators, and all predators have fantastic hearing; Emma could make out most of their conversation and could barely resist leaping in triumph as Malcolm told Jamie to go away, that Malcolm would handle the rest of this night and it wasn’t something “fucking feral no-brained shiteheads” could do.

***

Actually, what Malcolm had said had been carefully edited. The blonde bint may fancy herself a bit of a political talent, but he was, after all, the fucking Pharaoh. He knew, as did Jamie, what the audible range of a Winged person was, and they made sure to feed some lines at normal speaking tones so the fucking Tory bluebird would’nae get suspicious.

“Jamie.” Malcolm had spoken in softer tones to start. “I need ye back at that boring party, now shut the fuck up and listen—” he’d had to hold out a hand to stop the younger man from throwing a fist in his teeth, “— I need tae get Sarah fuckin’ Ferguson over there on her own. She’s angling fer something, an’ she’ll never spill while you’re here.”

“Malc, she’s fucking in Heat, ye senile auld fucking cunt!” Jamie was careful to keep his voice low as well, but he poked a finger into his boss’ sternum. He was not, contrary to popular opinion, just Malcolm’s muscle, and people who dismissed him as being only a brainless thug were his favourite sort of idiots to tear apart. “She wants ye to bend her over a fucking tree stump an’ fuck her till she gets blisters on her gash, that’s all!”

Malcolm shook his head and spoke louder for the benefit of their audience. “Just get back tae the party, I’ll handle shite here.” He then dropped his voice for the next bit. “I fucking know, ye twat. I could hang my coat off her fucking nipples right now, and I probably will shag her.” He stopped Jamie’s furious retort by stamping on his foot. “But not the way she wants. Remember what I told ye the first week ye were in the Press Office?” Raising his voice again, Malcolm told him, “Go on, I’ll handle things back here. This isn’t a job for a fucking feral, no-brained shitehead like yourself.”

Throwing a few choice profanities at his boss (only partially an act, those pheasants were fucking tasty after all) and picking up his shirt and jacket, Jamie took off and resisted the urge to grin until he’d cleared Messinger airspace.

He did remember those initial days of Malcolm’s tuition when he was a young lad fresh off the train from Glasgow, actually. They basically boiled down to “how tae use your fucking dick tae get the upper hand.”

***

Emma watched Jamie fly away and Malcolm walk toward her, that lithe, whipcord-lean body of his moving with dangerous grace. His wings were held high — a clear Alpha dominance stance — and he walked like he owned the estate and everything in it.

Including her.

Standing tall and proud in front of her, the moonlight sliding off his silver wings and hair like an electric current, he was so terrifyingly beautiful that she wanted to throw herself in front of him and beg for him to take her and get a Winged child upon her. She could just imagine the quality children they’d breed together: strong, cunning, and beautiful, with gorgeous blue and silver wings.

But the forms had to be obeyed, after all. She would fly, and he would give chase, and she would be taken. The estate defenses were still off, no risk of a sonic alarm putting a screaming halt to this — and since Malcolm’s attack dog had flown off, there were no curious eyes either. Perfect. She spread her wings and fanned them hard to generate enough lift for takeoff.

Malcolm followed suit soon afterwards, his wings beating down in a rush of wind as he leapt.

Emma’s wings were beating as fast as her pounding heart as she circled the moonlit grounds of her estate. She heard the ruffle of feathers and saw Malcolm gliding above her on great silver wings, banking into the wind. He was fast, so fast; with him in pursuit, escape was impossible. If she even wanted to escape.

They spiralled higher and higher into the cold southern skies, two lovely predators in silver and blue under the starlit brightness. Up and up they flew, the wind in their hair and their ears full of the breathy whirr of feathers. This was how Winged were meant to mate.

Malcolm circled above her a few times at that dizzying speed he maintained, and then let out a falcon’s cry and went into a swooping, breathtaking dive, and in a blink Emma felt his strong hands on her waist and his teeth on her shoulder as he began to steer her towards the ground. He had her.

Her wings locked into a gliding pose as soon as his teeth sank into her skin, Winged instincts taking over and letting him bring them both down to the ground with the minimum amount of fuss. The landing was surprisingly gentle — no crashing into the ground here — for all the passions flying about on this summer night.

The next part certainly made up for that. Malcolm skidded on his heels, then forced her down onto her hands and knees and tore her wet knickers off in a savage frenzy. “Got ye,” he growled, his voice strained, as though he was trying to remember how to speak. He was feral, dangerous, and pure Alpha, all his energy focused entirely on her. On mating.

The remainder of Emma’s expensive clothes were swiftly stripped off of her by his clawed hands, leaving her naked and hot. Every time Malcolm’s hands came into contact with her skin, she’d moan and raise her bottom upward, canting her wet and swollen cunt up toward him. She could feel his talon-like fingers digging into her waist, his erection hard and tenting his trousers as she deliberately shifted her hips and rubbed herself up against it. “Oh god, take me now!” she moaned, and ground harder against him, painfully and unbearably aroused. “You caught me, my Alpha. I’m yours.”

He growled and roughly pushed her away, struggling out of his trousers and underwear before sharply pulling her back against him. Her blazing hot skin slipped and slid over his, and he indulged himself for a second by sliding up against her — her dripping arousal slicking the base of his erection, creating a powerful combination of both their scents. His hands went to the exquisitely sensitive base of her wings, stroking through the soft blue down feathers, leaving her shivering with excitement.

“By the way, I like it fucking rough,” he snarled, and she felt herself get even wetter at that husky, dominating tone and the heady scent of an Alpha, primal and raw. He reeked of power like a commoner reeked of cheap wing oil. “But this, oh fuck darlin’, I’m going tae fuck ye into the fucking ground.”

***

His ancient, animalistic instincts were taking over, making rational thought near impossible. He was naked, beyond hard, and he needed to mate, now. It didn’t matter that the woman he caught was in a rival Party, or that she’d previously dated Fuckleberry Thin from DoSAC, or that he actually didn’t like her much; it all paled into insignificance against the overpowering scent of a pretty young female in Heat. I’m going tae fill her, make her scream, make her come.

WIth no care for her comfort or potential bruises, he flipped her onto her back, pulled her legs apart and had his face down between her thighs in one quick movement, his tongue greedily lapping up all that heady, intoxicating, ambrosial arousal. Females had to come first, he knew, ancestral memories as old as his race coming to the fore; that way they were more receptive to the male. More open. More likely to conceive.

Malcolm growled at her yelp of surprise and swirled his expert tongue around her, his hands digging into her legs like the talons of a hawk. Swearing wasn’t the only thing he could do with his mouth.

***

Her hands flat against the dry earth and her fingers sinking into it, Emma arched her back and screamed, her wings rustling. She thought he’d just take her, but he was down between her legs and doing something incredible that involved his tongue rubbing up and down her folds and teasing at her throbbing clit while never slipping inside her, just this new and strange pleasure as he rubbed, and rubbed, and rubbed —

Her orgasm took her entirely by surprise. There was no build-up or warning spasms like she normally got; just a sudden and sharp explosion of ecstasy like a tank shell detonating inside her. She knew she was screaming and clawing at his hair, his wings, anything she could grab, all the while having wave after almost painful wave of orgasm.

***

The posh bint was still convulsing on the ground and screaming through the last orgasm he’d brought her to when Malcolm’s mind cleared enough to remember his original objective. It was fucking difficult, mind; his tenure as the Alpha of Westminster had involved far more Dominance fights than wanton shaggin’, and she was young, an’ gorgeous, an’ fertile, an’ fuck would this ever piss off Ollie Reeder if he ever found out…

He ran a hand over his face and rooted in his discarded trousers for a second or two before finding what he was after. Teachin’ fucking Tory slags a lesson first, fuckin’ with Ollie’s mind later.

Emma’s eyes barely had time to flutter open, after having had them screwed shut during that last violent orgasm, before she saw Malcolm lower himself down onto her, his teeth bared and his wings still held high, those cruel grey eyes fixing onto her in a cold, predatory stare. He’s going to take me now, she thought, the realisation sweeping through her with relief that he hadn’t come to his senses and changed his mind, and she opened her legs and arms and welcomed him.

Malcolm sank his fingers into her shoulders and coldly sheathed himself inside her. His first thrust was brutal and hard, and it was only faster and rougher from there as he pounded into her with incredible strength. Dry grass and small stones tore into her back as he ground her against the turf, as did his fingernails, but she barely noticed, engrossed in the cacophony of sensation his harsh, furious motions were causing inside her.

He was aggressive, Dominant, absolutely exhilarating — everything an Alpha of the Flock should be. She came again and again on that forest floor.

***

His mating partner was keening fit to burst his eardrums, and he answered with an inhuman snarl. This wasn’t politics any longer, just the fulfillment of a drive old as life itself, and he thrust into the beautiful, fertile blonde underneath him with ever-increasing force. Mental images of great flocks of children with lovely grey and blue wings filled his mind for a second; he reared up in response, his wings beating hard. No. Fucking no. He was no fucking brainless tool.

Keep your fucking shite together, Tucker…

Malcolm ground his teeth together hard enough to hurt and fought against the almost unbearable urge to bite her as his own orgasm approached. He’d never had a Mating Flight before this, but he knew from conversations and reading that the harsh bite he wanted to give her right now would trigger her into ovulation. He’d managed to get the strong Durex onto his cock without her noticing, but only a fucking idiot puts all his trust in one safeguard.

It was so fucking hard not tae bite. Her skin looked so hot and smooth and inviting, and he even found himself starting to lean toward her neck as he grew swiftly closer to climax. He gritted his teeth and moaned with the effort, his breathing ragged and his back arched.

Just a few seconds more…

***

Emma gave a cry of triumph and relief when she felt his cock pulse strongly inside her, and he was coming long and hard and loud, screaming his pleasure into the dark forest as he filled her with his seed. A minute afterwards, he was hard again and frantically pounding towards his next climax, urged on by their Winged hormones and the biological imperative to mate and breed.

His wings rustled and spread over her like a silver canopy, and his hand fisted itself in her hair and pulled; he wouldn’t let her up until he’d completely spent himself within her.

There was no tenderness from Malcolm F Tucker, but a Winged neither expected nor wanted tenderness. Instead she took hold of his wide shoulders and lifted her hips to meet his thrusts, giving as good as she got — shoving against him, taking him deeper, moving so that his narrow pelvis rubbed against her clit with every stroke.

She moaned, the high keening cry of a kestrel; then her body went rigid, and her next orgasm ripped through her in violent, intense shudders, again, and again, and again, before he finally found his release and collapsed against her, his great wings draping over them, his head resting on her chest.

Bruised, scratched and exhausted, she laid a hand on his head and stroked his grey hair. He was hers now, not that Cassidy cripple’s. There would be no half-blue-blood-wingless offspring from this man, but beautiful blue and grey nobility. Messinger nobility. Powerful Messinger nobility, at that. She clasped Malcolm tight against her and smiled. Foolish commoner. Foolish little cuckoo.

***

His fierce hunger finally sated, Malcolm pushed himself up from her body. He shrugged off her hands and withdrew quickly from her, swatting her arms away when she tried to grasp him again. “Hands off woman, I got work tae do, unlike you fucking rich twats. Thanks for the food, an’ the fuck. I’m off.”

“You think that was it?” she smirked, wrapping her wings gracefully around her shoulders and revelling in the look of bafflement he shot her. The mighty Malcolm Tucker outsmarted by her, oh this was a grand moment indeed. “You took a Winged woman in Heat, had a Mating Flight, and you think you can fly back to your office like nothing happened? You are Messinger property now! My flock will be making the necessary arrangements with the Cassidys. You’ll be Bonded to me!”

Of all the reactions she was expecting — anger, rage, attempts at bargaining — she’d not thought of the one that had the man bent double and laughing fit to burst. “What is so funny?”

Malcolm gave another barking laugh. “Oh that is hysterical! Ye honestly think all common folk are as thick as a fucking shit sausage, don’t ye? Fucking stupid cunt, I was wearin’ a fucking condom the whole time! I don’t go shaggin’ strange women or men without one!”

“But I never saw —”

“No, ye didn’t. Not with your posh head buried up your arse as usual. I knew what ye were after and what’s more, so did Jamie. Ye’ve got no political skill or subtlety at all, have ye Ladyship?”

Emma sat in a state of shock, her hair mussed, her legs still wide open from their coupling, and just stared at the upstart commoner. The one who had outsmarted her, the Lady Messinger.

Malcolm grinned and waved a very full condom at her before throwing it overarm into the nearby lake with every ounce of his considerable strength, and then pulled his trousers back on. “I didn’t bite ye nor come in ye, so don’t ye try to go trapping me for yer flock.” He picked up the rest of the clothing and threw the remains of her dress at her. “Clean yeself up, you look like a Thai whore after a gang bang. Not a bad shag that, ye’ve got talent in that area if nothing else.” Shaking his wings to straighten out the feathers and brushing dead leaves and dirt off himself, he added before taking off into the night sky:

“Just not as much talent as I have, lass. G’night!”

Emma sprung up to her feet and shrieked, “You’ll regret this, cuckoo!” but Malcolm was already a shrinking silver silhouette in the night, and before she finished the sentence, he was gone.


End file.
